...And the conversation somehow drifted to 'Al Tishali Oti'. Declared one blogger, "If I was the sabra, I wouldn't post so cryptically'. "If I was the sabra", said another, "I wouldn't use so many Hebrew & Yiddish words." Another blogger chimed in, "If I owned 'Al Tishali Oti', I would be more consistent with colors n content." "I wouldn't be sarcastic to commenters", muttered another, darkly. One blogger added not. "I have nothing to say, for 'To know the sabra is to be the sabra'."

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Yes, 12:40am is the best time to call AA and ask about theoretical mileage tickets to my destinations :)

WHAT???! EVERYTHING IS BOOKED!?!? TO ALL THE NEIGHBORING COUNTRIES AS WELL??? FROM ALL THE NEIGHBORING CITIES?!?! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Pro bono publico (English: for the public good; usually shortened to pro bono) is a Latinphrase generally used to describe professional work undertaken voluntarily and without payment or at a reduced fee as a public service. It is common in the legal profession and is increasingly seen in marketing, technology, and strategy consulting firms. Pro bono service, unlike traditional volunteerism, uses the specific skills of professionals to provide services to those who are unable to afford them.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

According to Wikipedia, in the Philippines, there are between 120 and 175 languages, depending on the method of classification. Four languages no longer have any known speakers. Almost all the Philippine languages belong to the Austronesian language family. Of all of these languages, only 2 are considered official in the country while (as of 2010) about 12 are considered official auxiliary.

Jewish residents of Paris crammed inside the city's historic Synagogue Nazareth Monday evening in an attempt to put words to their shock and grief following the gunning down of three young children and a father outside the Ozar Hatorah high school in Toulouse. Many of those words came straight from the Psalmist, the refrains mournful at time and hopeful at others, expressing the shared feeling that Western Europe's largest Jewish community had been targeted without cause or provocation.

Chabad-Lubavitch Rabbi Chaim Nisenbaum, vice president of the Consistoire, the Central Consistory of French Jews, called the memorial service for 30-year-old teacher and native Parisian Jonathan Sandler, his two sons Aryeh, 6, and Gavriel, 3, and seven-year-old Miriam Monsonego a uniting force that also served as a wake-up call for members to be extra vigilant.

The children attended the Chabad-run Gan Rashi elementary school in Toulouse, and were waiting for their bus when the gunman pulled up.

"We are afraid this can be emulated, that G‑d forbid, someone would want to do the same thing," stated Nisenbaum, who is also a member of the CRIF, the umbrella Representative Council of French Jewish Institutions. "And yet, we must continue to live and thrive. We cannot fear going outside. We have to go to school; we have to go to work. But we must take special measures to protect our citizens."

Throughout the tumultuous day, Jewish officials and French authorities united in a show of perseverance outside the Toulouse school, with President Nicolas Sarkozy pledging that the shooter, who opened fire from a motorcycle before heading inside the school, would be found and brought to justice. Investigators revealed later that bullets from the morning slaughter matched those in two separate fatal attacks against French paratroopers in Toulouse and Montauban, crimes that also involved a gunman aboard a motorcycle.

Following the attack, France's Interior Ministry beefed up security at Jewish schools throughout the country.

"I saw two people dead in front of the school, an adult and a child," one father told RTL radio, according to news reports. "Inside, it was a vision of horror, the bodies of two small children. I did not find my son; apparently, he fled when he saw what happened. How can they attack something as sacred as a school, attack children only 60 centimeters tall?"

Unimaginable Horror

Monday's service also included prayers for the speedy recovery of Brian Bijaoui, a 15-year-old student from Nice who was living in the Ozar Hatorah dormitories. His Hebrew name is Aharon ben Leah.

According to Rabbi Yehoshua Hecht, who was Bijaoui's counselor at a Chabad-run camp in Nice a few years ago, the boy "always had a smile on his face."

"He's a very sweet kid who's always telling jokes," said Hecht. "We all feel terrible. This is very sad news, no matter who you are. But all the more so when you know people who are involved."

CRIF deputy chairman Meir Habib, along with other Jewish officials, condemned the attack.

"We have no doubt that the attack was anti-Semitic. It is certain," he said. "Killing children from close range just because they are Jewish is an unimaginable horror. These are innocent children."

Calling the shooting "an attack on the whole Jewish community," Rabbi Aryeh Goldberg, deputy director of the Rabbinical Centre of Europe, similarly pledged that in time, "this act of barbarity and murder will be met with a Jewish response."

"We will bury the dead, look after the injured, and we will demand justice is pursued through the appropriate channels," he said. "If there are people who want to scare the Jewish community into submission, our response will be to show them that we will not be bowed. … We will build more schools, synagogues and other Jewish institutions."

The 50th prohibition is that we are forbidden from having pity on idol worshippers or from being impressed1 with anything associated with them.

The source of this commandment is G‑d's statement (exalted be He),2 "Lo techanem." ["You shall not allow them to find grace in your eyes."]

The Oral Tradition explains that this means, "Do not ascribe grace to them." It is even prohibited to say about an idol worshipper who has a beautiful appearance, "This person is beautiful," or "This person has a beautiful face," as explained in our Talmud.3

The Jerusalem Talmud, tractate Avodah Zarah4 says, "The prohibition not to ascribe grace to them counts as a prohibition."

Kapach translates the Arabic "as'tachsan" into the Hebrew, "l'shabe'ach," which is literally translated, "to praise" (as Chavel does). In note 62, however, Kapach writes that he uses this word only because there is no Hebrew word which expresses the Arabic, which connotates being emotionally affected by the beauty of something of theirs.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The mountains, the air, the Klezmer, the kerchiefs. Especially personal because of my Chabad family living there, working hard to ensure every Jewish child has a school to go to where he or she can learn about their incredible heritage.The following (written by a friend in Tzfat) is a basic overview of Chabad in Tzfat with links to the Zissil encyclopedic website for more detailed info. Enjoy!

Chabad's
roots in Tzfat go back to the early years of the 19th century. The
third Chabad Rebbe encouraged his followers to move to the Land of Israel and
acquire property in the country. Many of these disciples moved to Israel and
the Chabad community bought land in the eastern part of the Old Jewish Quarter
in 1820. They built the Tzemach Tzedek synagogue on Hatam Sofer Street.

During
the ensuing decades the Chabad community dwindled along with the general Jewish
population of Tzfat. In the early 1970s the Rebbe of Chabad directed a
"garin" -- nucleus '' of his followers to settle in Tzfat and
establish a Chabad community. Several young couples heeded this request and in
1972 the revitalized Chabad of Tzfat began to plant its roots in the city.

The
early focuses of the Chabad settlers of the '70s was housing and education. To
answer the need for low-income housing, Chabad established Kiryat Chabad in the
Canaan neighborhood of Tzfat. Today the neighborhood includes several hundred
apartments along with a central synagogue, mikva, and supermarket which carries
food products which carry the Chabad hechsher.

The
Chabad leadership also opened schools, kindergardens and other educational
institutions to serve the needs of the Chabad community. All Chabad educational
institutions are open to the general Jewish public in Tzfat. The Machon Alte
seminary provides instruction for women who are interested in learning about
Judaism. Ascent serves as a hostel with drop-in classes for Jews of all ages and
nationalities. Kollel Chabad operates Tzfat's largest soup kitchen. Tememei Derech Yeshiva teaches young English speakers about Chabad and the StamCenter serves as an interactive center for teaching about the craft of Sofer
Stam.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

I just got home from a wedding in a kibbutz. The bride was stunning, the food was great, the band was cliché and I danced like crazy. Little girls in pretty dresses were blowing bubbles and running around, getting in the way of the adults and trying to sneak pieces of cake when they could. The teenagers were pouring shots, the friends of the kallah were taking pictures, the scene was just as it would be at any other wedding in Israel.

Except for the part during the chuppah when they had to stop for a few minutes because the Iron Dome was intercepting a rocket, and the huge WHOOOSHH sound made it impossible to hear the ketubah. Except for when, before the toasts, the brother of the chatan read out a list of "what to do if" scenarios and explained where all the closest shelters were. Except for the part where the Code Red alarm sounded twice during dancing, and half the wedding party vanished.
I didn't really debate going to this wedding beforehand. I knew it was near Ashdod, I knew it was potentially dangerous, I knew there had been rockets earlier today. I've been keeping up with the news and was hoping the escalation would be over by tonight, but I knew the chances of that were pretty low. I didn't start panicking until I boarded the bus. Then the reality of the situation hit me and I started thinking about going home. I don't want to die, I thought. I don't want to be near a rocket when it hits the ground, I don't want to run to a shelter, I don't want to be scared for my life. Suddenly, everyone on the bus looked terrifying, every backpack and briefcase could've been holding a bomb, everyone wearing a sweatshirt was hiding something. I stood up and started getting my stuff together, ready to leave.
And then I realized what I should've been thinking the whole time. If I got off the bus right then and went home, they win. If I miss my friends' wedding, if I'm too scared to take a 20 minute bus ride, the Palestinians have accomplished their goal. They have taken control, the power is in their hands.
I've always said that I regret not going to the army. I say that I want to fight for my country. I want to show the world that I'm not afraid to die for something I believe in. I've argued passionately that Israel is something worth putting your life on the line for. I say these words all the time, but as I stood on the bus, debating my next move, I wondered if they were true. If I was brave enough to stand behind them. And I sat back down. Because I realized that THIS is the way I can fight back. I won't change my plans, I won't let my decisions be guided by fear, I won't jump every time I hear a loud noise.
I made a decision to make aliyah, and in that split second I went from being a citizen, a student, to a soldier. I don't have a uniform or a gun, I haven't been trained in warfare, but I can fight for my country by just living here. By not letting myself be afraid.
I went to the wedding tonight. There were three rockets that flew over my head, all intercepted by the Iron Dome. I didn't run when the alarm was sounded. I danced with the kallah and my friends, danced all night long until we were exhausted. We sang מי שמאמן לא מפחד and I closed my eyes and believed it. Hashem is protecting us. That's really all there is. We cannot be afraid.

I just couldn't post about Zirkind. Not yet, at least.
And then I read this from David Wilder.
The world is just spiraling out of control.
HASHEM! SHOW US THAT YOU'RE IN CONTROL!!!

A Child's Pain (David Wilder)

Seventeen years ago, I seem to recall walking around outside in Kiryat Arba, when news of a terror attack started making the rounds. A bus had been shot at, not too far away, at the ‘Glass junction’ on the way to Hebron. I jumped in a car going in that direction and about five minutes later found myself face to face with two dead men, others injured, and a large group of people, who were, a few minutes before, passengers on that ill-fated bus.

Yehuda Partush had already been taken off the bus. A doctor examined him, did whatever he could, and then threw his hands up in disgust. Partush and his wife Mazal were coming back from Jerusalem with the keys to their new home, that they’d just purchased. When the shooting started, Partush jumped on his wife, who was then pregnant, saving her life. She later gave birth to their first son.

Nachum Hoss was still on the bus, sitting near the front. I knew him; We had met and talked a few days earlier. I helped to take him off the bus. I only remember mumbling, again and again, ‘Nachum, we love you, Nachum, we love you.’

Today was the 17th anniversary of that horrible day. A small group of people, their family and from Hebron, met at the cemetery, to recite some Psalms, say a few prayers, and remember them.

I try, every year, to attend the short service. But, even after so many years, it still hurts. Especially to hear Yehuda’s son, Aviel Yehuda, not yet 17 years old, repeating the holy Kaddish prayer for a father he wasn’t privileged to know.

That was terror past. But there still is terror, present.

Yesterday I participated in an event that was new to me. A few weeks ago I received a very emotional, actually heart-rending letter from Michael Palmer, father of Asher and grandfather of Yonaton Palmer. These two, father and son, were murdered at the end of September when Arab terrorists hurled a rock at their car from a moving vehicle. The rock went through the windshield, hitting Asher in the head, causing him to lose control of the car. He and his infant son were both killed.

Michael Palmer’s letter described the first court hearing, held at a military prison outside Jerusalem. Michael and one of his sons were present. Along with dozens of Arabs, supporting the murderous terrorists. He suggested that perhaps others could attend the next hearing, together with him and his son.

I responded positively, as did many others. He presented a list of over 100 people who wanted to participate in the next hearing. He was told that only ten people would be allowed in the courtroom. (The six Arabs charged, with each one being allowed 10 representatives, could have at least 60 representatives to cheer them on.)

Yesterday morning I drove, with a few other people, out to “Machane Ofer” just over an hour away from Hebron. It was a nightmare come true.

In order to be allowed in, you had to be on ‘the list.’ I was on the list. One step in. Of course, I had to leave my ID at the gate, to be received back on the way out. After that, the fun began. I went through three security checks in order to be allowed in. The first two were the normal, magnometer machines. Just like the airport. Or Ma’arat HaMachpela.

But the third one was manual. The guard who went over me with a fine-tooth comb was given orders, before starting with me, ‘to check us the same way they check the prisoners.’

Of course, we couldn’t bring anything inside. Including, no beeper (pager) or mobile phone. I have a press card and asked if I could bring a camera, after identifying myself as an accredited journalist. The answer was no. However, later on, a group of journalists all came in, with their cameras, videos and recorders.

The actual hearing, which began about an hour after I got in, at 10:30, was horrible. It is very difficult to sit in a room with terrorist killers. I sat next to Michael Palmer and his son Shmuel. Behind us were the other nine they let in. On the other side of isle were a group of Arabs (I counted about 15), a group of journalists and somewhere between 15 to 20 security personnel.

Six handcuffed Arabs were led in from a side door. The handcuffs were removed; the leg cuffs stayed on. They immediately began conversations with their family members present. We were told that this is allowed. One by one, the terrorists were asked if they understood the charges against them. Two were indicted for murder. The others are suspected of participating in other such rock-throwings at moving cars from a moving car and also belonging to a group attempting to kill Jews. Some of them are charged with 25 such attempted killings, besides the actual killing of the Palmers. With one exception, they all pleaded innocent, saying they hadn’t done anything wrong.

The proceedings, before a military panel of three officers, are in Hebrew, with full translation into Arabic. The lawyers for the terrorists are all Arabs. They are, of course, allowed to bring cell phones and the like into the courtroom.

One of the military people participating in the trial introduced himself to me and said, ‘don’t worry. All Am Yisrael (the Jewish People) are behind you. They’ll get what they deserve.” To which I responded, ‘unfortunately they won’t. They’ll get a five star hotel for a few years until being released for a Jewish hostage.” “Yeah,” he said, “you should see the conditions they have here. They’re better off in jail than at their homes.”

This man, who conversed with me, isn’t Jewish.

After each set of two men pleaded not-guilty, they were led out of the courtroom. When one was left, another Arab was brought in, for a different hearing. The two saw each other, smiled broadly and started hugging and kissing each other.

This too was allowed. It when on for at least five minutes. It was disgusting. When they sat down, they had their arms around each other, and continued smiling and talking. In a military courtroom, in front of three military officer-judges and the prosecutors. It sort of wanted to make you vomit.

When the last of the Palmer murderers left the room – I think he pleaded guilty – again they hugged. This time, after a minute or two, their mutual affection was broken up by the guards.

As I mentioned earlier, it’s very very hard to sit near these rancid creatures. I really don’t know how Michael Palmer does it. They killed his son and grandson. But we surely can’t let him sit there alone, in a room filled with Arabs, showing support for these murderers. But it really was horrible.

If we knew, that at the end, they would hang from a pole somewhere…; but we all know that’s not what’s going to happen. They’ll sit in an Israeli jail, receive ‘compensation while imprisoned, get fed three times a day, and also graduate from an exclusive terrorist university, with at least one college degree, and a specialty in advanced terror tactics. And guess who pays for it!

In seventeen years, Asher Palmer won’t have a son to say Kaddish for him at the annual cemetery service. His only son was killed together with him. But his daughter Orit, who was born only months after his murder, will likely stand next to her father’s and brother’s graves, asking herself, ‘what was he really like’ – thinking, ‘I am so sorry I was never able to talk to him, hold his hand, have him pick me up and hold me.’ And anyone else there, in seventeen years, like me today, at the service for Nachum Hoss and Yehuda Partush, will too, feel that pain, the pain of a child who wasn’t privileged to know her father, because a terrorist killed him, because he was a Jew, living in Israel.

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

It's attracting attention in America's public and private school communities and is now being reviewed in Israel as well.

The Lowell Milken Center is a program which encourages American schoolchildren in the fourth through twelfth grades to identify unknown heroes -- someone who impacts positively on a community or beyond. The students create documentation in the form of websites, video presentations or written reports which provide data that details the individual's actions.

One recent project came about as the result of an incredible story which was almost lost to history. The Irena Sendler Project relates the activities of a brave woman, Irena Sendler, whose desire to serve humanity brought her into daily danger. She never gave into fear and her strength and righteousness allowed her to save more than 2,500 Jewish children.

Irena was a Polish social worker in World War II and had an entry permit that allowed her to enter the ghetto where tens of thousands of Jews were held captive. Irena understood that the Nazis intended to eliminate these people and slowly she convinced Jewish parents to allow her to smuggle out their children.

Irena removed the children and found safe homes for each child. She was eventually caught and endured horrific torture but never revealed the whereabouts of these children whose identities she safeguarded in a glass jar which she had buried. Talk about chassidei oomois ha'olam...!

Students from the Center created a play about Irena Sendler, which they named 'Life in a Jar'.
Funded by Jewish philanthropist Lowell Milken, the students have performed the play all over U.S. and Europe reaching over 290 presentations! I would love to go see it!!

Long ago they stopped worshiping every word. Did what they felt like. Superficial, on a level. If they liked it, they kept it, if they didn't, they chucked it. Still now, in the present. In one ear and out the ear, if it doesn't jive with their lifestyle.

I guess I have to be like them and stop believing and caring about it all so much, and just start choosing what to listen to, what to get affected by, what to connect with. Time to start filtering. To decide what's true, what's real. To act like a stranger. To act like my friends and my siblings.

Sad, but I guess that's life.

PS I guess they were right in hiding the videos.
PPS That's why I feel so bad for Mushka. I hear the depths of her agony.

Like the video (with Mimmis's friends) where the Rebbe explains ahavas yisroel as giving what the person asks for, not what you think they need. That will come later. Both the object (from your part) and the understanding (on their part).

Like why the taffy creature marsh didn't work. Even with an excellent grade. And why the swimming tube hat still causes cringe.

Like why DorethSticks will never work. Not with thinking, feeling people at least. You keep smiling, it's cool, it works for you.

People hang up the phone and roll eyes, mock, frustrated, sigh, dismiss...is that better?
Trusting in the absoluteness of someone is obviously unhealthy. Shoulda told me that earlier on. Everyone else seemed to have picked up on that. No expectations, we would say, no disappointments. Too bad it has to be about you, though. It's a shame to have to filter. I guess that's what exile is all about.

But you know, sitting on that wall in the driveway, your short raw sentence struck a chord I didn't think you'd access. You accessed it because you came from a different place. Last night, someone came. I wonder if it was you. It's been months. I wonder if the message was for you or for the next one. I don't know if you still care. I don't know if I still care. (bold I, and prapps bold I doubled).

Israel.

The banquet-like air in the less cold night proved that explaining leads to understanding which leads to empathy.

Dozens of hair salons across Israel are offering free haircuts, to men and women who are about to begin their military service, on the condition that the cut hair will be used for wings to benefit children with cancer.When Corporal Daniel Segal of the Nahal Brigade joined the army, he knew he was going to have to part with his long blond hair. "It's certainly something that defined me for a long time," he said. "I haven't really gotten a hair cut since the eighth grade."

Before joining the army, Daniel attended a military preparatory program (mechina), where he was taught the value of volunteer activities, especially with children. "In mechina I thought a lot about how I could find myself …. A week before the beginning of my military service I decided I had to do it [donate my hair]."

After a short search on the internet, Daniel found the organization "Zichron Menachem," an organization dedicated to supporting children with cancer and their families. One of their projects is donating hair to make wigs for sick children."Although everyone told me that I could make thousands of shekels on my hair… I didn't want to make money. I wanted to my hair to profit children with cancer," Daniel said.

"The issue of hair is part of coping with cancer, and many of the patients are deeply traumatized by the significant hair loss, because this is actually the person's signature," explained the center's Executive Director, Haim Erntel. He continued to state that "the average child with cancer needs a wig for a year at least," often, for longer, in which case the child would require an additional wig.A wig made of real hair can cost thousands of shekels, but because of hair donations these wigs are available to the children free of charge.

"I was really proud of myself that I contributed to this effort, and when I received the certificate of appreciation by mail it made me feel really good," Daniel said. "I guess sometimes I miss the hair, but I highly recommend that anyone who is about to go into the army consider donating their hair. Just think of a six year old child who is sick with cancer and what you can do to help."

Sunday, March 04, 2012

...are making me sick with jealousy and longing!! aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!

*e's cuz**
** i love how yl figured out the cjm comment***
*** sometimes i don't mind being deciphered
**** uh there were no stars leading to this, how'd u find it?*****
*****this humour, or to be honest "humour" helped deflect the oncoming storm of nostalgia/regret/longing. bh!

What is a sabra?
A sabra is a form of cactus, Opuntia ficus-indica, that grows extensively in Israel.
The fruit of the sabra has a thick peel with a sharp spine and is covered in prickly thorns. Once the rough and deterring exterior is peeled away, however, you will reach the contrasting sweet pulp.
Authentic Israelis are often referred to as "sabras" because they tend to be outwardly tough and coarse, but once you get to know them they really are a soft, sweet and sensitive people.